


what the mendicant said

by harrietscats



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Attempted Murder, F/M, Whump, the citadel dlc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 03:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17800151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harrietscats/pseuds/harrietscats
Summary: “I wasn’t aware shore leave was mandatory in war time,” Shepard muttered bitterly, drank her tea.“Oh yes, Commander,” said Dr. Chakwas. “The right to a maximum of two and a half weeks of shore leave was awarded to all enlisted in 2098’s Rome Accords.”Dangling four and a half stories above a small access shaft, Shepard desperately wished she was spending her shore leave like James and Kaidan were: lap dances and shots in Chora’s Den, not falling through fish tanks and using her own pilot as bait.





	what the mendicant said

[Citadel FTL lane between 2181 Despoina and Skepsis Relay]

[Sigurd’s Cradle]

[01:21]

 

It took the combined effort of both Garrus and James to get Shepard off the Kodiak. And, once the engine had finished cycling down, Cortez was there as well, hands placed bracingly on the commander’s stomach and sternum. Garrus looked like he was resisting the urge to shoot cooperation in the foot, take Shepard in his arms and run her to Dr. Chakwas like someone was holding a beautifully calibrated gun to his head and stopping him. He consoled himself by wrapping a limp arm around his cowl and placing a supporting hand at her hip. James mirrored Garrus (albeit with a more conservative placement of his hand) and together they managed to get her off the Kodiak and onto the _Normandy_ proper.

On her own two feet.

As directed.

That was before she passed out, mind you.

“Get her pressure seals, Esteban,” James said, crabwalking with Garrus to his workbench. There was no way they were getting a combined hundred kilos of woman and hardsuit up to Dr. Chakwas. “I’m gonna grab the emergency medigel.”

“Do you think we need it?” Cortez looked at the commander’s slack face, the dried blood on her upper lip. He felt for a pulse, found it thready and weak. She was so fucking cold. “ _Mierda_ , James, Garrus, get her laying down. I need to blow the seals.”

Garrus’s mandibles flared in alarm. “What? Why?” He knew how much it cost the average taxpayer in credits to fabricate a set of custom built N7 armor for a woman under five-two. He knew that, in an emergency, Shepard could be kitted out in under ten minutes. But when a soldier’s life was on the line, when time spent unscrewing them from their plate armor could be better served saving their lives, the hydrostatic gel between plates could be overpressurized. Military parlance had many terms for it, depending on branch of service. For Shepard’s marines, it was “popping the cork”. For Cortez’s Air Force, “blowing the seals”.

With a swipe of his arm, James had his workbench cleared. He and Garrus had her on the cold metal as Cortez located the emergency release beneath a vertebrae housing on the small of her spine.

They had ten seconds.

“Forget the medigel and page Dr. Chakwas,” Cortez said to James. “She’s in shock.”

“What does that mean?” Garrus snapped, subvocals haywire. It was not the wrecked sound that had James and Cortez sharing looks on the Kodiak as he ran his talons through Shepard’s wet hair. It was all the nightmarish stereotypes of the First Contact War come to life: a predatory growl, almost like the sound a lion might make right before it pounced. Garrus had drawn himself up to his full height, fringe on display, mandibles flared. He seemed impervious to the fact that roughly sixty kilos of tungsten and polycarbonate was about to hit him at four hundred psi.

James had a terrified inclination to say: “Clever girl.”

Instead, he dragged the stupid turian out of the firing line, shouted, “Hit the deck!” for any lone ensigns who may have been on duty, or itching to use the shuttle bay-cum-gym during their free time. Before Garrus could gore him with his talons and try to go back to Shepard’s side, the seals of her armor blew apart, left her cold and lifeless in the stretchy jumpsuit beneath.

“Scars, she’s gonna be okay,” James said, once the last bits of metal hit the ground. “Dr. Chakwas is gonna work her magic and—”

“Is she dying?”

Later, Garrus will hate himself for sounding so scared, like a fledgling just beginning to lose his soft down. But now, lying on the ground with bits of Shepard’s broken hardsuit in his plates, he’s _terrified._ He lost her once, heard the news from Captain—then Councillor, now Admiral—Anderson, hadn’t been there for her when she needed him most. Now, watching Cortez fish under James’s workbench, come to bearing a battered looking plastic rectangle, he felt even more useless than he did sitting in Anderson’s office, hearing the words “ _Unknown vessel.”, “Twenty-one hands lost.”, “She’s gone, son.”_

James patted him on the shoulder, helped him up with a well meaning hand. Cortez fitted a sheet of something crinkly and aluminum sounding around the commander’s prone form. He fought the urge to snarl at the futility of the metallic looking sheet; it seemed better suited for a patch job on the Mako. The elevator doors opened; Dr. Chakwas appeared like a wraith, emergency kit thrown over shoulder, bullying past James and Garrus as if they were glass.

“When did she lose consciousness?” she asked, voice even and measured and unperturbed.

“Shortly after we broke atmosphere,” Garrus answered. It was easier to imagine himself back at C-Sec, reporting evidence back to his primary, or the DI assigned. “Her nose started bleeding again and she told us to make sure she got back on the _Normandy_ on “her own steam”.” His tongue fumbled around the unfamiliar human phrase, but he continued. “She fainted in the jump seat after her vidsync with Dr. Bryson, and she hasn’t regained consciousness for longer than a few seconds at a time.”

Dr. Chakwas let out a patient hum, fingers probing. “Garrus, go up to her room and fetch me something clean, dry, and comfortable. I’m going to want to keep her overnight, I believe.” She clicked her fingers at James, who snapped to attention. “James, grab her legs, let’s get her sitting up.”

Garrus didn’t move, didn’t breathe as they maneuvered Shepard into a sitting position, head lolling back against Cortez. Her hair was damp, curling against her shoulder and sticking to her cheekbone. Her freckles stood out like stamps on paper white skin. He would have thought the worst—did think the worst—if Chakwas didn’t rip open a small foil packet and wave it businesslike under the commander’s nose once, twice—

She weakly slapped at Chakwas. A freckling of blue fell from her fingertips, fell impotent to the deck plating. Garrus felt himself breathe, even if she didn’t open her eyes, or say anything remotely coherent.

“Right, let’s get her moving James.” Chakwas turned, saw Garrus standing there with his mandibles pulled tight, seconds away from keening. “Garrus, I gave you an order. I guarantee you, the commander will want something warm when she comes to, and she’ll be cranky enough.”  

James had Shepard’s arm pulled over his shoulders, his fingers digging into the waistband of her jumpsuit. “ _Vamos, princesa. Mueve esas piernas.”_

A limp laugh. “ _Porte moi, s’il te plait.”_ Her eyes found Garrus’s, feverish, searching. “ _Atten_ —no, wait, Garrus _…”_

Her hand trembled, fragile, in the air between them. Three talons enveloped five fingers. “Go, _mellis,_ ” he said quietly, stroked his thumb over her shaking knuckles. She was struggling to stay conscious; her face was bloodless, gray, translucent. There were bruises as dark as night under her eyes, and she was beginning to bleed from her nose again. “I’ll bring you those sweatpants you like.”

That seemed to tide her. Chakwas cajoled James into the elevator as Shepard lost consciousness again, and this time James didn’t hesitate; his free arm came round her legs, and Garrus fervently wished they still had the stairs of the SR-1.

A hand briefly clutched his arm. He looked down, saw Cortez squeeze once, then go to James’s workbench and begin righting the upended mess.

“She’ll be okay, Garrus,” he said, quiet.

“Yeah,” he said, equally quiet as he began his ascent to the loft. “She will.”

His girlfriend needed sweatpants. And not just any sweatpants. The comfortable ones.

 

…

[ _Normandy_ medbay]

[01:36]

 

Miraculously, Shepard was asleep when Garrus entered the medbay fifteen minutes later, and he had a sneaking suspicion it was because of the line in the crook of her elbow. Dr. Chakwas didn’t look up from her computer as he entered; she gestured for the clothing he had spent a greater part of those fifteen minutes debating over.

“Our ancestors talked about the horrors of deep sea exploration, Garrus,” Dr. Chakwas said. He turned his back as she engaged the privacy screen on the window that overlooked the mess. “The bends, they called it. Give us some privacy, Garrus. Just for a moment.”

Garrus flushed, nodded, turned his back. “I’m sorry, I don’t think that translated, Doctor—” he started.

“Decompression sickness, Garrus. I read Lieutenant Cortez’s report. It was very thorough. The fact that Commander Shepard made it four thousand meters in a decommissioned Triton from before we, as a species, discovered FTL, had a chat with the forebears of H.P. Lovecraft’s darkest nightmares, and didn’t die upon resurfacing, is a miracle on itself.” She cleared her throat. Garrus safely assumed he could turn around.

Doctor stood beside patient, studying the line she had inserted into Shepard’s arm with a critical eye. She looked small; it was never a word he would have associated with Shepard. In his mind’s eye they were still on the rain lashed deck of the _MSV Monarch,_ fighting a losing battle against brutes and marauders and whatever ugliness the Reapers could throw at them. Cortez was wasted as a shuttle pilot; he had half a mind to recommend him for commendation. Then, she resurfaced in that repurposed Titan, collapsed shivering onto the deck pracrically on the laps of two brutes, and somehow didn’t die.

 _“Never do that again,”_ he had snapped, worry coding his subvocals.

She had smiled weakly, crawled into the jumpseat, and opened a vidsync with Dr. Bryson.

“I have treated Isobéal Shepard for three years, Garrus,” Dr. Chakwas said, quiet. “And right now, she is held together by little more than medigel and pigheadedness.” Her eyes found his, just shy of pleading. “You will make sure she rests?”

Garrus scoffed. Shrugged. He found his way to her bedside, held her tiny hand in his. The clothes he labored over—Toronto Conservatory shirt, Alliance Navy sweatpants flannel lined for the “New England chill”—hung off of her. He hadn’t made his way up to her as often as he liked, but he hadn’t noticed her civvies practically falling off of her.

“Dr. Chakwas?”

She looked at him, gave no evidence otherwise she heard him.

“How close did I come to losing her?”

She said nothing. Her computer chimed, and whatever message she received had a muscle in her jaw clenching.

“Garrus, she will be coming around within the hour. Would you like some kava?” Dr. Chakwas asked.

Garrus blinked, confused.

“Sure—”

“Excellent.” She handed him a datapad, expression unreadable. Unsure, Garrus took it in the hand that wasn’t holding Shepard’s. Her eyes flicked purposefully to the datapad, then to Garrus’s face. “I’ll be right back.”

And he was left with the datapad.

 

_CNATRAINST 53320.02_

_From: steven.hackett@alliance.mil_

_To: isobéal.shepard@alliance.mil_

_Subject: Shore Leave_

 

_Commander Shepard,_

_After the events of 2181 Despoina, I’m ordering you and the_ Normandy _back into dry dock for some much needed repairs. You’ve seen a lot of action and emergency patches won’t hold for much longer; both you and she both need some much needed TLC._

_A small army of techs will take care of the details once you arrive, so let’s get your crew out of there. You’ve officially been diverted from—_

 

He forced himself to stop reading. His neck was flushed blue, anxiety thrummed in his veins. There was no way Shepard was going to take the news well. No way in _hell—_

“Did they lower the ambient temperature?”

Garrus cursed Dr. Chakwas for taking so long.

“No, you just did an arguably method performance of an ice cube,” he quipped, worry flanging his voice. Shepard was still pale, but not quite as pale as she had been on the _Monarch_ , writhing in agony, blood trickling from her nose in spurts, those brutes looking on curiously before—

He was never going to be able to unsee that.

She hissed, pushed herself up on aching joints. When was the last time she had slept before Despoina? Certainly not Mars. She had caught that nap on the cargo deck after her disastrous interview with Diana Allers (“Commander, during your tribunal, there were concerns you had faked your death to defect to Cerberus. Understandably, not only the Alliance, but the Hegemony are concerned…”). Was it after Tuchanka (“Would have liked to see those sea shells, Commander.”)? Or was it Huerta, worn prayer book in hand (“Kalahira, mistress of inscrutable depths, I ask forgiveness...”)? 

That was the only time Dr. Chakwas offered grief counseling. She had lost too many friends. It wasn’t fair; she brought them all through hell, brought them back, and now she was losing them.

Garrus was boring holes through the sickbay window, staring at Dr. Chakwas as she mixed lacte into his kava and exchanged pleasantries with Lieutenant Danvers. There were three mugs: Dr. Chakwas’s, Shepard’s, and hers.

That sneaky woman planned this.

Shepard was looking at him. Her nose was wrinkled in that adorable way of hers; it usually appeared when she was studying after action reports, updates on Crucible readiness. Sometimes it showed up when James said something in Spanish that didn’t hit his translator. Now, it was fully directed at him.

“You’re hiding something,” she said.

Garrus choked.

“I am not. I’m just...mystified by your beauty.”

Shepard crossed her arms against her chest, settled against the bulkhead. The arch of her brow added to the crinkle of her nose.

“I’m trying to optimize the firing sequence on the thanix?”

“That’s not your “thinking of calibrations” face,” Shepard said.

”How can you tell?”

”You made it once while we were—"

”Did not.”

“Did too. Want to try again?”

“Okay you caught me.” Dr. Chakwas took that moment to reappear with two coffees and one kava. “Admiral Hackett is remanding is to the Citadel.” The pinched expression on her face became even more severe. Her face greyed, took on the cast and coloration of curdled milk. He took his kava from the doctor gratefully. “For shore leave.” Oh Spirits, did she look murderous. “And I’m afraid it’s mandatory.”

She took the news with the gravity of a terminal diagnosis. Her hand shook as she clenched her jaw, fisted the awful hospital blankets she forever whined about.

“Right,” she sniffed. “Get me my fatigues, Garrus.”

“Garrus, if you go near her footlocker I’ll write you up,” Dr. Chakwas said, not even bothering to look up from her computer.

“I was under the impression that there was a war on,” Shepard said snidely. “I have emails to check—Hackett wanted me boots on the ground on Benning once the Leviathan threat was handled.”

Garrus held up the datapad Dr. Chakwas had handed him before Shepard had woken up swinging. She snatched it weakly. Two high spots of color appeared on her face, the further she read.

“ ‘Mandatory shore leave’?” She laughed, and it was not a kind sound. “Bloody ridiculous. Does the Hierarchy believe in nonsense like that? ”

Garrus hummed, drank his kava meditatively. Shepard was angry; she grated in stagnation, thrived in crises. It was what made her a great N7, an even better soldier. And right now, she was itching for a fight.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “After your first year of basic you get twelve weeks mandatory paid leave. And if you don’t take it, your superior sends you to the base psychologist.”

At Shepard’s blank look, he shrugged.

“Sorry, honey, but we can’t all work ourselves to death like humans.”

“My fatigues,” she repeated, in the same tone that cowed Reapers, crime bosses, and a very racist salarian dalatrass. “ _Now.”_

Thankfully, Garrus was saved from answering.

“EDI?”  

“Yes, Dr. Chakwas,” answered the AI serenely.

“As per ALLMED Regulation 1332.30, I am formally relieving Commander Isobéal Mairéad Shepard, service number 5923-AC-2826, from duty until we reach drydock at the Citadel.” Shepard attempted to launch herself bodily from the bed, snarling. Garrus placed a hand on her shoulder and managed to keep her seated, but Despoina was deep in in her bones still. The chill of the Leviathan of Dis, or whatever created four thousand meters down, made her weak. So she settled for verbal protests instead.

”EDI, if you file that I’ll unplug you!”

”I cannot be unplugged, Shepard,” EDI quipped. “Perhaps you would like to attach a request for a mandatory psychological evaluation with Dr. Michel, Dr. Chakwas? According to her schedule, she has an opening this Wednesday at 9:30.”

Shepard knew a losing battle when she saw it; her jaw clicked shut audibly, and she focused her thunderous expression on the enormous novelty mug Garrus had picked up on Illium for her. The steam warmed her. The scent reminded her of home. Genuine Irish Breakfast tea.

Garrus tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Shepard couldn’t help it, she smiled  

“I will be attaching my notes for the relief of duty in the data package, EDI,” Dr. Chakwas continued. “Please transmit via QEC to the Chief of Staff, Alliance Command, and all appropriate members of the chain of command. Signed CMO Major Karin Chakwas, Alliance Service Number 93-212-463.”

“Done. We will reach the Serpent Nebula, with anticipated docking with the Citadel in ninety-six hours, forty-one minutes, Galactic Mean Time.” A pause. “Joker would like me to ask if the chain of command still holds if the XO is the CO’s boyfriend.”

“I think if Joker wants to walk off this ship, he won’t ask again,” Shepard bit out. “Can I at least sleep in my own bed?”

“Sleep for eight hours and we’ll talk about it. Now drink your tea.”

Shepard wrinkled her nose. “Tea, Dr. Chakwas?”

She hummed in assent. “It’s well sugared, Shepard.”

Pleading eyes met Garrus’s. He squeezed her hand in response, stood. For the next ninety-six hours, thirty-two minutes, he was in command. And as much as he wanted to make a nest of blankets and pillows for his girlfriend and watch the latest season of _Fleet and Flotilla_ , he needed to make sure they made it back to the Citadel in one piece.

“Drink your tea, Shepard,” he echoed.

“Traitor,” she muttered, drank.

He pressed his bone plates to her freezing forehead in a kiss. “Love you too, sweetie.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I’m taking your fatigues.”

Her protest as he left the medbay (uniform tucked neatly under his arm, boots dangling from his talons) was _almost_ a whine:

“No!”


End file.
